Thursday, 16 August 2012

Adam Yauch died the other day. “MCA”. One-third of the
Beastie Boys. You’ll have to Google them son, or think it into your enhanced
reality glasses, or whatever people do to look up stuff when you are old enough
to read this… Actually, forget it -- just ask me and I’ll rap Paul Revere for you. The Beasties were pioneers who helped make
rap accessible to middle class white boys like me.Icons of my youth, they spat the soundtrack for most of my
important milestones growing up.

So, it’s sad that MCA is no longer with us. He was a
talented artist and philanthropist.

He was only 47 when he died after losing his battle with
cancer (screw you, cancer).

When I first heard the news my first thought was, “Man, that
sucks. What a loss.”My second
thought was, “Crap. I’m old”.

I know... your dad can be a bit self-centred.

In my defense, I was already feeling old when I heard the
sad news about MCA. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror the other day
and actually did a double-take – graying hair, wrinkles, bags under my eyes.
Christ, is that me?!?! I have come to accept feeling tired and hungover most of
the time, but looking it, too, is
another unexpected and unwelcome twist to this whole parenting thing.If anything, I thought having a kid
would make me feel younger. After all, the world of parenting an infant is
all "Jolly-Jumpers" and "Bumbos" and "playing peek-a-boo"…

Yeah, well… your Jolly Jumper is where
I stick you when my old-guy arms are too weak to hold you anymore, and your Bumbo is where you go when I need to lay my
head down on the kitchen table for a few minutes. And I pulled
a hamstring playing peek-a-boo with you the other day. Pulled a hammy. Playing
peek-a-boo. Your mom suggested I warm-up first next time. Warm-up. To play
peek-a-boo.

Sigh.

Feeling old at 39 is a drag, but luckily the overall awesomeness
of hanging out with you balances things out. Now that summer has arrived I can
pop you in your Chariot and we can ride downtown to see mom at lunch. We can go
for a run in the afternoon (I run, you snooze). I can bounce you on my knee
while we dig some lunchtime polka music at “Arts in the Park”. I don’t take it
for granted for a second that I get to do these things; They’re a great tonic
for my general weariness and make it possible to get through each day without
having to medicate myself with the Irish whiskey murmuring to me from the liquor
cabinet (in lilting, Gaelic tones… like a delicious, delicious siren song).

It’s a fine balance though, Owen. The sleep thing continues
to be a huge challenge. Things have improved; you go to sleep OK at the
beginning of the night but you can’t seem to get over that 4 am hump. Luckily
we can turn to the experts. Let’s see, Weissbluth says, “If baby’s waking up
early you need to put him to bed earlier”. Check. Ferber says, “If baby is
waking up early you need to put him to bed later.”Yeah. Thanks, fellas.

Not having a good sleep for months
and months takes its toll and affects everything else in my life in subtle and
not-so subtle ways. I feel like I’m getting by each day, but there’s nothing
left in the tank. There’s no physical or emotional reserve. So when some other,
unexpected, challenge comes along it can really kick our collective asses.

For example…we
started renovating the hell out of our house this summer (I know, “Good call,
dad.”) Then your mom got sick with a cold. Then I got even sicker with a cold.
Then your sleeping took a turn for the worse again. If we were already just
scraping by each day, suddenly we felt like we couldn’t even reach anything to
scrape at. I was once again having to go in and see you many times a night, and because we’re
determined to see this sleep training thing through I have to steel my resolve
each time to leave you there in your crib even though you’re crying like crazy
to just be picked up and comorted. It…really…sucks. I feel like my heart dies a
little bit each time I have to turn my back on you and leave you there. It’s
even harder on your mom who has to fight a few million years of evolution to
not pick you up.

During this latest setback, whenever we went in you kept
curling your feet up to your chest and grabbing onto them like you do when you
want to play. My response was always to gently push your feet down, get mildly
annoyed and suggest that you go to sleep so daddy doesn’t develop a drinking
problem. This went on for a very long week or two when your mom and I had this
conversation:

“Say, uh… when
was the last time Owen pooped?”

“I dunno. Come to think of it I haven’t changed any poops in
awhile.”

“Neither have I. Like in a week. Crap. Is it possible he’s
constipated?”

A quick Google search (like, first hit quick) confirmed that
when babies start solid food like you did recently, some get so constipated
that they can’t sleep at night and will curl their feet up to their chest to
try and relieve the pain.

At this point, that caustically sarcastic voice in my head
pipes up, “And the parent of the year goes to…” accompanied by a slow clap.
Shut-up, head.

Luckily, Google also suggested a way to fix the situation so
baby can sleep. It involved a Q-tip, some Vaseline, and a mild breach of
trust…but it worked! Things started moving a little and you had a pretty good
sleep.

Trouble was, the next day we were still dealing with a
logjam. A call to the ol’ family doc revealed he was working Emergency at WGH
that afternoon, so I bundled you up and headed over. Mom met us there. We were
both feeling pretty self-conscious for showing-up at Emerg with a poop-related
baby non-emergency, but we were willing to do it if it meant we could help you
feel better…and possibly relieve our guilt over not helping you sooner….and
possibly allow us to get more sleep…but MOSTLY to help you feel better
(honest).

The grim-faced nurse with the Eastern European accent who
admitted us did little to relieve our sheepishness.

“You brought your baby in because you think he’s
constipated. What makes you think this?” she asks, brow furrowed.

Mom explains the symptoms and concludes with our definitive
proof, “…so we Q-tipped him and that got things moving.”

The furrows on Nurse Grim’s brow deepen dramatically with
this information. I swoop in to salvage any lingering parental credibility we
have with her;

“Uh… we read about it on the Internet.” It comes out like a
question.

I could have sworn I caught you rolling your eyes, son.

Despite Nurse Grim’s hesitation regarding which button to
push under her desk – the green one that opened the sliding door into the
doctor area, or the red one that hot links to Child Services so they could come
and save you from us – we eventually walked out of the hospital 45 minutes
later carrying a prescription for glycerin suppositories and a healthy dose of
humility.

After dropping mom off at work and swinging by the drug
store we were back home andstill
faced with a gridlock. Initially I figured I would wait for mom to deploy the
suppository, but your little grunts and cries were letting me know you weren’t
exactly enjoying yourself, so I figured there was no point in prolonging your
discomfort.

At this point it occurs to me that I don’t really know what
a “suppository” is but the instructions on the package told me just what was to
be inserted where and how long to expect to wait for some action (15 minutes to
an hour).

“Oh….OH!
Ohhhhkay. Maybe we should wait for mom after all, hey?” but your only response
was to cry a bit harder and I knew I couldn’t leave you in pain when there was
something I could possibly do about it.

“O.K, Turtle, we can do this.”

I unwrapped the suppository and paused. How far up do I
push this thing? How hard do I push? Will it hurt him? What will happen to it
once it’s in there? I had so many
questions… and they were all answered in way less than “15 minutes to an hour”.

It was more like .07 seconds because that thing was only
about a centimeter up when the dam broke in a big way. Full reverse.

Panic. Confusion. At least one of us was screaming. Due to
the sheer force there was actually a propulsive effect on your little body,
which was fortunate because as the available space on the change table
filled-up you were propelled away from it until your head was basically hanging
off the end where I held it in one hand while the other hand frantically mopped
with toilet paper… desperately…uselessly. Sort-of like trying to mop up an
overturned cement mixer with a wet nap. The whole time I was bawling, “I’m
sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! It’ll stop soon! It’ll stop soon! Oh god, please
let it stop soon!”

And... eventually... it did.

Afterwards we lay on the sofa together. The house was quiet.
On our backs, we stared wide-eyed up at ceiling. “That got weird, hey? Yeah.
That got weird.”

On the up side, your constipation problem was licked and I
now have a great story to tell your first girlfriend when you bring her over
for supper.